


The Stranger

by InkFlavored



Series: Zenyatta Appreciation Week 2018 [7]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, genji is a broody sonofabitch, zenyatta is relentlessly peaceful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-08 00:00:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14092584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkFlavored/pseuds/InkFlavored
Summary: Zenyatta Appreciation Week (Day 7: Greetings/Goodbyes)Every friend must begin as a stranger, and every goodbye must be prefaced by "hello."





	The Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> aaaaaa i can't believe it's the last day already!! i had so much fun this week, and thank you all for reading <3

Tekhartha Zenyatta, a monk of the Shambali Temple, was meditating quietly on an overhang near the temple. The nine carved orbs around his neck chimed like bells, and their song carried over the windy mountain peak. However, his search for enlightenment was interrupted when he saw something move. Refocusing, he saw a figure, alone pass beneath the overhang. It was humanoid in shape, but unclear if it was human or omnic. He almost thought he was imagining things.

The Shambali did not get many visitors. The odd soul seeking enlightenment, yes, but those were few and far between. As such, the monks and village below the temple welcomed any new face eagerly, and with open arms. The mountain became quite small after a while, when everyone knew everyone. It was for this reason that when he saw a lone figure, wandering alone in the cold, wondered why no one had spoken of a new visitor yet.

As soon as a new face, friendly or otherwise, appeared on the mountain, everyone from the children on upwards was in an uproar. And even if this stranger had somehow snuck past the village on their way up, _surely_ the other monks would have seen them and announced it to every living thing on the mountain. It was strange.

“Greetings, traveler,” he called out as the figure walked below his meditation spot. “Are you looking for –”

Zenyatta cut himself off in surprise as the dark figure leapt away, almost too quickly to be seen. The monk tilted his head – was he imagining things after all? He slowly floated up from his meditating lotus position, and made his way down to where he first saw the stranger. He listened and watched carefully, looked for any egregious heat-signatures. Nothing.

Once he made his way down to where the stranger disappeared, he confirmed he was not having a hard drive malfunction. There were footprints in the snow. Strange footprints, indeed, as they barely made a dent in a snow despite the sheer depth. It was like whoever had made them was almost lighter than air.

Zenyatta looked down at his own feet, comfortably floating above the ground. _Stranger things have happened_ , he thought.

He followed the footprints for a short distance, only to have them trail off and disappear. The only sign of the stranger left was their strangely shallow footsteps, and a long dash, like someone had kicked up the snow, or dragged something across the surface. _Very strange._

He looked around again for sign of the stranger, but saw nothing. He called out to them anyway, “If you are in need of shelter, the Shambali Temple is not much farther up the mountain. We will accept you, no matter who you are.” Again, he looked all around, and saw nothing. “Quite strange,” he added to himself, and headed back up the mountain to complete his meditation.

 

Zenyatta told no one of the mysterious stranger he saw that afternoon. His reasoning was that if such a person _was_ seeking help or shelter, they would heed his advice. If not, they would be on their way. If they did not want to be found, it was not his right to make sure they were being sought after. Everyone found peace in their own way. If this stranger found peace in solitude, then so be it.

Nevertheless, he did not stop _thinking_ about the stranger. Who comes to such a populated area of an otherwise isolated mountain, only to run at the first sign of life? Assuming they did not head through the village, that is. And if they were _not_ seeking the Shambali, why did they come? Was is happenstance? Had the universe created the paradox for the poor stranger that, in seeking solitude in the mountains, they had actually found a thriving populace? It was not a question that could be answered by philosophy.

The next day, he did not see the stranger again. He was disappointed, but wholly unsurprised. If they truly did want to stay hidden, they would not show themselves again so soon. Still, he meditated in the same spot, to see if he could catch another glimpse, perhaps try to talk to them. The day after that, also no sign of the stranger. Once again, he was not surprised. If the stranger was truly avoiding him, or had just found a particularly good hiding spot, he would never know if they were dedicated to staying unseen.

The third day, he expected nothing different. He expected to complete his meditation and return to the temple like he always did, the stranger only a fleeting thought in his mind. He was pleasantly surprised.

As he finished his meditation, and was preparing to head back to the temple, he heard something. Something so small and insignificant, most would not have even considered it noticeable. It was the _hiss_ and _click_ of an omnic body releasing heat. And it was not Zenyatta’s.

The omnic monk nearly jumped for joy – the stranger hadn’t left after all! – but kept his composure as he gently floated upwards, headed _away_ from the temple, and went down the overhang instead.

Despite his excitement, the monk remained outwardly calm and serene, not wanting to scare off the stranger, or otherwise make a fool of himself. He walked beneath the overhang, and strained to listen and watch for anything that sounded like omnic joints, or another release of steam.

Instead, he heard the gentle brush of footsteps at his side, and slightly behind him. It was so quiet, it was barely noticeable, but living on a quiet mountaintop had trained him to hear every noise out of the ordinary.

So, like any human or omnic would do when they suspect they’re being followed, Zenyatta turned around, and asked, “Hello?” The footsteps got faster, and he saw a something dash past him. Fearing the stranger would get away again, the monk cried, “Wait!”

To his surprise, the figure _actually_ stopped, a little ways away. They stood, crouched in a defensive position, under the shadow of the overhang, their body gently pulsating a dim green light.  They barely had an outline, but Zenyatta talked to them anyway.

“I was taking the long route back to the temple,” he said, not technically lying. “I confess, I noticed you several days ago, and have been worried for your safety.”

The figure straightened, taught like a bow, prepared to strike at any moment. “You cannot help me.”

Zenyatta tilted his head. In that voice, he heard a lifetime’s worth of pain and suffering. “There is disquiet in your soul, my friend,” the monk said, gently. “The Shambali monks are open and accepting of all, human and omnic –”

“I am neither. You cannot help me.”

Zenyatta was struck dumb. Neither human _nor_ omnic? “Regardless of your state of being, you must be cold and tired,” he tried again. “Please, allow me to show you to the temple.”

The figure started inching away. “I don’t want your help. You can do nothing for me.”

“I disagree.”

The stranger’s light pulsed angrily. “There isn’t a single foolish monk in your temple that can help me. Now leave.”

Zenyatta raised his hands in surrender. “If you insist. But if you change your mind, come to the temple. Ask for Tekhartha Zenyatta.”

“I will not.”

The monk shrugged, and continued on his way, more determined than ever to help the stranger living under the Shambali’s doorstep.

 

The overhang become Zenyatta’s favorite meditation spot. Everyday, he came out to meditate on the overhang, and went the long way back to the temple to pass by the stranger. Sometimes they showed themselves, other times they didn’t. The monk wondered if they might secretly be following him on the days when they don’t seem to be present.  

Over and over again, Zenyatta tried to convince the stranger to come to the temple, but he was always met with the same answer, and they had the same conversation from the shadow of the overhang:

“You cannot help me.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because there has been no one else like me.”

“I doubt that.”

“I don’t.”

And so on.

Zenyatta began to wonder if there was even any hope in _trying_ to get the stranger to seek help. Whoever they were, they rejected every form of help Zenyatta offered, from the temple, to himself only, to things that they could do alone. All of them, thrown back in his face.

As the days went on, having the same conversation day after day, Zenyatta wondered if it was time to say goodbye to the stranger under his doorstep. To stop trying to help someone who always refused it. He couldn’t save everyone that came to the Shambali Temple, after all, and this stranger wasn’t even the first to reject help. The Shambali had seen many like him over the years. Perhaps he would have to let this one go.

On the day he declared the “last day,” of trying to help the stranger, he was met with a surprise as he went to meditate.

A lone figure, sitting on the overhang. Waiting.

Confusion and an almost giddy excitement came over the monk, but he revealed neither of them as he sat down next to the stranger. They sat in the snow, gazing off into the distance, and didn’t acknowledge the monk when he sat down.

Up close, Zenyatta could see why they had called themselves neither human nor omnic. They had a human shaped body plated in metal, omnic joints on one of their hands, and what looked like a metal glove on the other. The mask had no optical slits like other omnics, but was what looked to be a visor of some sort, for human eyes. He tried not to stare, but it was unlike anything he’d ever seen.

The two were silent for a long while. Zenyatta had almost slipped into meditation, when the stranger said something first:

“Why are you so determined to help me?”

The monk shrugged. “I do not believe you are hopeless.”

“You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

This time, the stranger didn’t sound angry, or phrase it like a rebuke. They sounded hollow. Afraid. Lonely.

“I have had many students who have said similar things. All of them believed they were beyond help, somehow. And all of them recovered gracefully. But I believe we got off on the wrong foot.” The monk turned to look at the stranger, and folded his hands in his lap. “Hello. My name is Tekhartha Zenyatta.”

The stranger slowly looked toward the monk, and nodded. “Hello. I am…Genji.”


End file.
